The single largest rooms on the Cerberus are the hangar decks. Each flight pod consists of two stacked landing bays with adjoined decks and hangars, which along with computer-assisted landings results in a faster Viper recovery rate. Mirror images of each other, these two huge areas are located on the flight pods. The inboard sides of the deck, closest to the ship's main hull, are lined with parking and maintenance bays for Vipers and Raptors based aboard the battlestar. The outboard side of the deck contains the launch tubes used by the Vipers for standard deployment. Huge blast doors seal the deck into four sections, each one containing an elevator that leads up to the flight deck directly overhead. The fore-most section contains an elevator system that leads towards Aerospace Fabrication.

Post-Holocaust Day: #351

Sol steps up to the rising hatch of Harrier-303, waiting a moment as the others land before she starts to climb down. Looking back at Toast, she nods her head. "Did what I could, you kept us moving out there." She intones. Shakes slides down the side of the bus to the deck floor with a light thud. She straightens and draws her helmet off from her head, giving a brush of her hair from her face and looking back towards all who have returned safely.

Cidra sets her Harrier down on Deck, opening it up promptly so the technicians can attend to it. "If you could attend to the post flight, Shakes," she orders the ECO simply. And then she's out. So she can count heads as the planes come back to the barn, and get on the wireless to CIC to collect casualty reports. Most of the pilots returning can, at least, drag themselves from their craft under their own power this time. Though the planes have still returned much abused from this 'lighter' swarm.

Devlin speeds in to an easy landing and climbs promptly out of the cockpit, tugging off helmet and gloves. He starts looking over his bird right away, shaking his head at the deckie, "No, shouldn't be any damage. Maybe a little dent on the wing… nah, it's tiny," he says, finding it with a finger. He scribbles on the appropriate forms, and high-fives Wade as he passes his wingman.

"Of course." Comes Sol's reply as she looks back at the bus and then climbs back up and in. She deposits her helmet aside and begins to go over the controls and do the check list for post-flight. Their Harrier came back unmarked.

Now that the adrenaline of combat is ebbing, pain is setting back in, and Psyche's wounds are reminding her — screaming — that she pushed them too far. She remains sitting in the cockpit, just breathing for a moment, once the canopy pops, gratefully allowing the deck crew to assist her with her helmet and collar. Gritting her teeth, she unfastens her harness and climbs out, sitting on the bottom rung of the ladder and letting a wave of nausea pass before going about her post-flight.

Crash and burn, baby, crash and burn. Pallas' Viper comes down the elevator in several pieces, missing a wing, and blazing in flames. Deck teams immediately start hosing it down before it even fully descends and gets right to work pulling him out. The old man is unsteady on his feet, coughing heavily, and as contrary as ever. He bats away the deckhands trying to help him walk, tries to take a few steps by himself, and falls to the floor when one of his legs gives.

Devlin heads over toward Psyche, but is detoured by Spiral's collapse. He heads over to the older man and reaches down to offer a hand up, ready to grip his forearm and help him back to his feet. "Hey, man," he says as he does it, "Nice work out there. Thanks for taking such good care of Bubbles for me."

There's the familiar sense of pressure as the Cerberus makes and complets its hyperlight jump, to flee again to another isolated corner of stay. No immediate enemy contacts are reported. How long that will last? Who can say. Medics, called as the RTB order was given, have descended on the hangar deck. One runs to attend to fallen Pallas, the rest fan out to see to pilots dealing with various burns, bruises and other assorted injuries.

The relative punctual chaos of the Deck after landing is lost from Shakes as she remains inside her bus, going through post-flight still. Sol tours over the interior and is glad for the reprieve.

"Now can I start ruminating on how exactly they seem to be able to continually find us, Boots?" Leyla's voice comes from the side of her raptor, the hatch already up. No, she's not leaving Boots to do the post-flight, she's just doing her visual inspection, and handing off the towed-in raider to the deck before she heads back inside.

Despite refusing help from the Deck crew, Pallas takes Devlin's offered hand to pull himself up. "No need to thank me, Decoy," he grunts, managing a smirk through the coughing. "Not the first time I rode on Bubbles' ass, and I do a good job every time." He tries to get up on his feet in one good pull, which leaves him hanging halfway up until Devlin pulls him up.

Devlin hauls Pallas to his feet with a grin, a steadying hand on the shoulder disguised as a friendly thump or two. "Yeah, I bet," he replies with a laugh, "Well, better you than a raider, at least. You good?"

Cidra gets off the wireless, striding a brisk pace over toward Pallas and Company. "Hard landing, Spiral," she observes. The concern faint, but present. "No KIA reports from the other squadrons, though I have not gotten a tally of the damage Baer and his people took. CIC reports we are positioned on the outskirts of Aerilon space at present."

Psyche catches Pallas' fall out of the corner of her eye and startles slightly, like she's going to take her gimped ass over to assist — but Devlin's already there, and she shoots him a grateful smile, returning to her post-flight checklist. Spiral's assertion of familiarity with her ass makes her choke-snort a laugh, and she grins, shaking her head as she works.

"Well, you never know what she might be into," is Pallas' reply as he steadies himself on his feet. More coughing, more swaying, and down he goes again. He's either dizzy from smoke inhalation or injured in the leg. "I'm fine," he grunts he says to Cidra, sounding winded by that last fall. "Quit frakking staring at me and get to work on that Viper," he snaps at the deckhand standing next to him. "You don't tell these frakking enlisted monkeys what to do constantly, they just sit around staring brain-dead," he snorts to Devlin, loud enough for several deckhands around him to hear. None of them are going to be helping him up anytime soon.

Visual inspection over, Leyla returns to the interior of her bird, to finish off post-flight, before she turns the ship over to the deckies to repair. "If it's not that damned ship, it's whatever the hell they brought back with them from the foundry. I need to find the doc."

Devlin snorts. "Pretty sure I know exactly what she's into, dude," he replies, just letting go as Pallas suddenly hits the deck again. "Shit, man, you need to get to sickbay. Or at least, like, a chair." He looks around for a second and spots a spair set of stairs, wheeling them over as he rolls his eyes. "You're lucky you don't accidentally get a wrench dropped on your head, or your plane crushed in the elevator one of these days," he says, "Here, come on." He pulls him up with both hands this time, and shoves the stairs under his ass. "There," he says, "I've gotta go deal with my shit, but I'll get somebody to wheel you off in style, yeah? There was some deckie I saw the other day had an awesome rack. Maybe she'll help." He grins, and claps Pallas on the shoulder once more before heading off.

"Report to Sickbay and let the medics decide how fine you are for themselves," Cidra orders Pallas simply. "If you have forgotten the way I can escort you." Her manner isn't particularly insistent but, then, it rarely is. She just naturally expects to be adhered to in such things.

Taking her time, Sol rises and moves for the exit, hooking her hand into her helmet before she climbs down. She hands over the clipboard to the deckhands and gives faint nod. She moves to clear the deck and amongst the others of the air-wing. Shakes gives a look towards Pallas.

The clap to his shoulder makes Pallas relapse into another coughing fit. Sitting hunched over in that chair and hacking up a lung, he looks every bit the old man. "They may be stupid, but they still follow orders if you shout them loud enough," he manages to Devlin. "And they know who does the real work on this Battlestar." Meaning them, of course, the pilots. Hanging around the Pallas while he talks like this probably isn't making Devlin any friends on the Deck, so it's a good thing that he heads off. "Where am I? What year is it?" he asks Cidra in an exaggeration of old-man confusion. "I need to stop by Sickbay anyway - I think that slut-eyed blonde PO is on shift today."

Psyche limps over to Spiral and Toast, cradling her left arm lightly against her middle. She looks pale, but has the unmistakable air of satisfaction borne by pilots who've flown well and added to their kill count. She can't physically manage the swagger, just now, but it's there in her aura. "C'mon, Bunky, I'll help you up there. I need something for the pain." She offers him her uninjured right side to lean on — though she can't help but wrinkle her nose a bit. "Eww. Slut-eyed? Really?"

"You are in the hangar deck of the Battlestar Cerberus, Spiral, and it is Twenty Forty-Two. Is there anything else I can help you with?" The response from Cidra is decidedly dry. His general abuse of the deckhands earns a narrowing of her blue eyes. Disapproving CAG. At his response about Sickbay she merely mildly replies, "All right, then. It all works out."

The look from Pallas moves to that of Psyche and tucking her helmet beneath her right arm, Shakes steps up closer. "How are you doing Bubbles? Holding out or would you like me to help you with post flight?" The usual cool and distant demeanor of the ECO edges on warm and sunny - just this side of it anyways.

"Slut-eyed, tits the size of a Battlestar, and legs so long could wrap 'em around you twice," Pallas confirms, slinging one arm across Psyche's shoulder as he stands up out of the chair. "Good frakking flying today," he says to his wingman. "I take back what I said about you not being in any shape to fly." Spiral, admitting to being wrong? Taking back a potential insult? Stop the presses. "You're more than welcome to support me on the other side," he says to Solstice with a leer that's ruined by another fit of coughing.

"Oh, no thanks — I'm all done. Just took a little ding out there," Psyche tells Solstice, returning the smile. Hers is a little strained, but it's probably just the physical discomfort evinced in the way she's favoring her left side. "Thanks for covering our asses out there, Shakes." She pats Spiral's chest as he succumbs to another coughing fit. "I get the tits and the legs, but I'm still vague on how eyes are slutty. You'll have to point her out to me." She seems deeply pleased with the praise from her legendarily acerbic ex-bunkmate, but doesn't respond to the words directly. Such a rare and exotic animal as Nice Pallas can be skittish and easily frightened off if approached.

"Charming," Cidra deadpans. "Get along, then." That said to Spiral, and whoever he's gotten to taxi him out. She will walk with him up to Sickbay. She'll need to get a proper casualty assessment from the docs anyway. And make sure Pallas actually does go there, of course.

Honey eyes land on Pallas again and the ECO says rather smoothly, "Wouldn't want to ruin your chances with the PO. If I show up she might get the wrong idea." Shakes manages one of those strained smiles that is usual of her. "But as long as you keep your hand where I can see it, I can help." She looks at the two and then nods her head to the pilot with a executed tilt. "It's what I do best. Thanks for shooting those toasters out of the sky." Her gaze drifts from Psyche back towards Cidra and she nods. She steps up, handing off her helmet to a deckhand before she offers her shoulder to Spiral.

"Oh, you'll see," Pallas says to Psyche. "It's the big, come-hither, frak-me-senseless look." He slings his other arm across Solstice's shoulders, now fully supported on both sides. By the time they go a dozen paces, he's walking just fine, though he's still coughing. "You sure you don't want to come support me too, Toast? The three of you could make a human chair and just carry me up to Sickbay," he says with a laugh. He's either giddy from the good kills or the smoke inhalation or both - it's not often that he laughs like